


The honeyed scent of decay

by EristheVengeful



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Harry, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Lord Harry Potter, Dark Magic, M/M, Slytherin Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EristheVengeful/pseuds/EristheVengeful
Summary: Death will do as Death always does, and Death fights and kills and seduces - or Harry becomes Death and meets his true equal, another Dark Lord, this one Order where Voldemort was Chaos...Or, that one story where somehow Harry is a Dark Lord that seduces an immortal Gellert Grindelwald...
Relationships: Gellert Grindelwald/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 276





	The honeyed scent of decay

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, I've got no focus, and I'm an idiot who cannot update a fic regularly to save my life... so instead I just wrote this, the idea jumped at me, and I couldn't resist...  
> Be warned, I didn't have the time to edit it, and English isn't my native language, so there might be a few rough patches... If someone could actually correct any mistakes I made, that would be grand! Thanks!
> 
> Oh and by the way: I don’t own shit, the HP universe belongs to JKR and whoever bought the rights to it, not me!

The weather was as dreary as the stone of the infamous Nurmengard fortress was damp. The storm raged outside, whilst three men walked deeper and deeper into the building. Two of those were guards, with their dull uniforms and authoritarian air. Between them, stumbling more than walking, was a queer man, with hair black as night, emerald, cunning eyes and a crooked smirk. Despite being marched in shackles, he did not seem defeated, in fact he had a rather anticipatory look to him. 

Sioon enough, the trio stopped in front of a heavy steel plated oak door. The locks were numerous, and the door itself was covered in tiny carved runes in a spidery handwriting. An escape from the prisoner that resided here would be absolutely disastrous after all. The raven-haired man's smirk widened into a shark-like grin, insane and charismatic. He was shoved through the door. In the cell -what else would it be- a pale-haired man was resting, blue and black eyes closed, his breath even and deep. Slowly, his eyes openend and he sat up, blinking a few times into awareness. 

The raven just stood, propped up a against the dingy wall, his smile getting gentler, until it was as soft as a mother's towards her child. But of course, the people in that cell were far from the mothering type. 

Magic sung between them, their deep, dark auras intertwining and dancing together like they had been apart for too long. 

Finally, after a long moment of sizing each other up, the pale-haired man laughed, a deep, booming laugh that once stroke fear into the heart of allies and ennemies alike. His outburst left him gasping on the floor, his mismatched eyes shining with unadulterated mirth.  
"-Hadrian, Hadrian, so nice of you to visit… what brings you here? Your ultimate downfall has finally taken place I see… Happens to the best of us doesn't it?  
-Geller, dearest can you truly laugh at me when you've been in this dump for decades?"  
The blond had gotten up, and two wizards were facing each other, their faces only a few inches apart. Their magic seeped out from their every pore, shifting to the rythm of an ancient, unsung melody. Where did one end and the other begin? Did it matter? The men's breath came out in short smoke puffs because of the cold of the cell. A dementor was passing by. It didn't stop. It never stopped, it feared the residents of the cells too much to ever do anything so foolish.  
Suddenly, Gellert leant downwards, until his lips slotted with the other Dark Lord’s. With whispered pleas and strangled moans , the night bled into a red dawn, red as blood. How ironic, that the color of the Victory was the first two defeated leaders saw upon waking, intertwined and nude as the day they were born…

The raven-haired man was embracing the other, hedonistic and unashamed. His laugh was tender and fear-inducing, like a bell, or a toll. A guard fled. The blonde shifted, and, in a tone that so contrasted his knife-sharp grin, spoke:  
"-Oh dearest, Dementors flee when you laugh..."  
The other man seemed adrift in his dreams, contented and practically purring on the lap of the other. An emerald eye opened, then two, and he disentangled himself from his lover.  
"-Only because they know who their true master is"  
-Their true master?  
-Oh, darling, how they were wrong when they thought Tom Riddle was the prophesied Dark Lord.. Don't you see it? We're equals, equals in every way"  
His power sang with vicious glee and violent intent, soon joined by the other Dark Lord's.  
"If I hadn't defeated the weakling at fifteen, I would never have become deserving of you, he was a stepping stone, but not my true equal, never my true equal… You are. You always have been." The blonde propped himself up on his elbows from where he had been lying on his grimy cot. In spite of the passage of time outside of his fortress, he was still young, would always be as long as he remained in these walls. What folly was it, truly, to imprison him into his own base, the place he designed for his eternal throne to rest?  
"Equals”, he spoke at long last, softly, like he was tasting the word, “but are we really? Your magic is much deadlier than mine, the gods were kinder to you."  
Out of the crimson lips of the other erupted a crystalline giggle, so full of mirth that it seemed truly out of place in what was meant to be his grave.  
"Gods? I don't believe in gods. I am my own god."  
"-Your own god? You're only human, you'll never be a god."  
"-But I am, I already am. You are too. We all are. We make our own destiny. Our own Heaven. Our own hell. We choose the path we tread upon, carefully or mindlessly. We have the power to change, to influence, to kill or to let live. What about this isn't godly? You and I both more than anyone else. Tell me, Gellert. What is a God to you?"  
"-A God… Well, I suppose a God would be someone who has immense power, more than anyone else. Who changes the world. Who is worshiped. Whose name is feared and revered alike. Who has followers, whose ideals spread and change the way people think."  
"-Then what are you, what are we, Gellert, but Gods? Lords, Gods, it only changes in name. We, more than anyone else, are Gods."

The raven got up from where he was crouched in front of the half-propped up blonde. He hummed a bit, swaying slightly to his feet with the melody. Gellert watched him, mesmerized, until a tan, callused hand extended in front of them. He looked up. Hadrian was smiling widely, a bit madly perhaps, but it was contagious.  
Two men in the dreariest, filthiest cell of the whole prison laughed, hearts open and hubris growing with each passing second. But was it really hubris, the only human guard of Nurmengard questioned, hearing the resounding laughter from his small, damp office, when they had more power to boast than anyone else in the world, alive or dead? 

One afternoon, when rare sun beams, somehow getting through the tick walls of the cell, caressed both of their naked, entwined flesh, Gellert spoke, his hair twirled between elegant fingers like one would play with something that fascinates them.  
"-Dearest, you're more God than I am, are you not?” His German accent was barely noticeable beneath the lilting, eerily soft voice he spoke in.  
“-What makes you say that?”, shot back the raven, amused, the fingers coming to an abrupt halt on Gellert's scalp.  
A wicked gleam was clearly visible in the verdant, toxic eyes, though it was more teasing than threatening. Gellert titled his head up sightly, before replying.  
"-My symbol, the tattoo you like to stroke, it means something else to you than it does to me, doesn't it?"  
"-Oh Gellert, I had wondered when you would figure it out, darling. Yes, it does indeed. Care to guess what it is to me?"  
"- It is not my mark to you, it is something else…"  
"-You, more than anyone, I believe, would be familiar with the tales of Beedle the Bard wouldn't you?"  
“-Master of Death…" The blond-haired man's voice had taken a reverent tone as his hand went up to caress his lover's cheek.  
"-So open, for a former Dark Lord… But yes, darling, except for one thing… You can't master Death, only become it.”  
“-Death…”  
"-Why else did you think I was willing to waste away here for an eternity, if not for you, and the fact that I have an eternity and a half to live still? You are my chosen, Gellert dearest, and you will be my bonded for eternity… And let it be said that death loves to rule. We will rule, yes Gellert? This base as our fortress, as our home... as it was always meant to be. You will be mine and I will be yours. We are equals, Gellert, in every sense of the word, I simply have an additional job."  
The cloying, honey-sweet smell of decay sifted through the room, and still the blond stared, dumbfounded, the foundations of his entire world once again shaken by his lover's words.

The weather was as dreary as the stone of the infamous Nuremberg fortress was damp. But today, in the hall that was usually devoid of life, were two twin thrones, and two immortals sat upon it, staring at their army of Dementors. Death has always had an aftertaste of fear after all.


End file.
